Hotel Angeline

by Kathleen Alcalá

  “I think I need to be a kid for a while,” she said. “I think I’ve found a place where I can do it.”

  CHAPTER 35

  SUSAN WIGGS

  FOUR YEARS LATER . . . THE HOTEL ANGELINE, SEATTLE

  She walks up the hill from the train station, feeling the freshness of the autumn air on her face for the first time in four years. In one hand, she drags an oversized suitcase. The other cradles Mr. Kenji’s bonsai plant, badly in need of the moist air of the Pacific Northwest.

  The coffee smells, the reek of exhaust, the distant snorts of ferry horns surround her, and her heart expands with a feeling of anticipation. She passes a guy selling Real Change and pauses to hand him a dollar. Another panhandler rattles a cup at her; she finds some oyster crackers from the train in her pocket and hands them over.

  Already, Seattle is taking hold of her. She still holds Sedona in the dry tan of her skin and in her hair, but the fine mist of the Northwest is making its way to places she didn’t know were parched. In her heart she carries the love and care of Uncle Burr and Namche Waterfall, who let her spend the last of her childhood being a child.

  The next step is up to her. She didn’t really debate with herself much about her future. She knew she wanted to return. There is a program at the University of Washington that is perfect for her. Tomorrow she will move into student housing and into a new life surrounded, for the first time ever, by her actual peers.

  First, though, there is a little unfinished business to take care of.

  She considers flagging a taxi—the hill is a challenge with the giant suitcase—but decides against it. She trudges past her old landmarks and haunts, past the parks and public buildings, making her way up Pine Street.

  A youth soccer game is going on in the ball field across the street, and just as Alexis turns the corner, a cheer goes up. She smiles briefly, feeling encouraged.

  The sight of the Hotel Angeline freezes her on the sidewalk. She stands staring up at the old building. The front walkway is flanked by still-blooming Ligustrum. Sunset-colored leaves litter the damp sidewalk. There is a heaviness in the air, the weight of remembrance. Stuffing her hands into the pockets of her coat, she gazes up at the mullioned windows and odd, angular gables and dormers.

  As if it were yesterday, she knows which resident occupies each room.

  In Roberta’s window is the dreamcatcher Alexis sent her from Sedona, and in Ursula’s, a crystal on a nylon string. Deaf Donald’s window is plastered with “Save the Whales” stickers and yellow happy faces. Mr. Kenji’s window, off to the side, is serenely empty.

  And then there is Otto. . . .

  Alexis takes a deep breath, filling her lungs with piney, damp air, and hoists her big suitcase, bumping its wheels up the front steps. Her old key still works—no surprise. When she steps into the foyer, she is transported back to the past. The faint afternoon sunlight splashes through the front windows, painting the floor with bars of light and dark.

  She is about to call out, but stops herself. She needs a moment. Did all that really happen? To her? It seems so distant, yet she can remember everything as though it had just happened. The memories are as crisp and well defined as old rose petals pressed between the pages of a girl’s diary.

  She reflects on the girl she had been in this place, and the things she had to do in order to survive. For a long time, she’d had to live her childhood backward, forced to step up and take charge of things that were thrust into her hands.

  It isn’t fair, but maybe that’s the whole point. Fairness has no part in real life, and she took that lesson away from the Hotel Angeline with her. The time in Sedona had been her refuge and her reward, but now she was ready to come back and face the things that had happened here.

  The creak of old wood signals the arrival of Deaf Donald, tottering down the stairs. She rushes to him and slips her arms around him, feeling the nubby warmth of his sweater, the same one he has worn every year when the weather turns. His hearing is gone entirely now; Roberta had written to her about it. Alexis steps back and signs, “I’ve missed you.”

  His face lights up with surprise. “You’re signing now.”

  “I learned it in school, down in Arizona.”

  The uneven thump of Ursula’s gait alerts her.

  “Christ on a crutch, look what the cat dragged in,” Ursula says, holding out her arms. “Welcome back.”

  The others join them, one by one, and they sit together in the parlor with furniture arranged just as it had always been, the overstuffed chairs, the settee, the bookcases crammed with bestsellers by her uncle Burr.

  “You look wonderful,” Roberta says, beaming.

  “I’m sorry I had to go,” Alexis says, looking around at their dear faces. “But I had to.”

  They give her a plate of Fig Newmans and some organic green tea, and she feels their love surrounding her. Yet her pleasure at being among them again dims.

  “It’s not the same without Otto, is it?” she asks.

  There’s a beat of silence. Mr. Kenji says, “We miss him every day. It was a good death, though. No sickness or pain. Just . . . sleep. After a very good life.”

  She gets up and fetches the bonsai tree, handing it to Mr. Kenji. “I kept this in my room the whole time I was away. I’m bringing it back in memory of Otto. Will you tend to it for me?”

  Mr. Kenji’s hands are tender and reverent as he takes it from her. “Of course. It is in good hands.”

  They sit together for a while in companionable silence. Alexis pretends she’s not tense about the upcoming meeting, but it’s not working.

  “Nervous about seein’ Linda, are ye?” Ursula asks bluntly.

  “Is it that obvious?”

  “Alexis,” Roberta says. “We see you. We know you. Even though you’ve been away, we’ll always be family.”

  She braces her hands on her knees and stands up. “I need to go down to the basement.”

  It is about closure, coming here to remember some things, and to lay other things to rest. She opens the door to the basement and the damp, fecund smell makes her catch her breath. She recoils a little, then forces herself to go on, step by step, descending to a place that has haunted her dreams.

  “Let me get the light for you,” Roberta calls, and flips a switch.

  Alexis catches her breath again, this time with surprise and pleasure.

  “What did you do?” she asks, feeling a lightness in her chest.

  “We didn’t see the point of storing coffins down here,” Ursula says.

  “Bad karma,” adds Mr. Kenji.

  She studies the warm, friendly glow of green-shaded desk lamps, listens to the faint hum of computers. Seven of them.

  A couple of the people working at the computers look up, nod, and smile slightly. “Come on in,” says a woman in sweats and fuzzy slippers. “Everyone’s welcome here.”

  “We had a brainstorm,” Roberta explains. “This is a big, beautiful space now, isn’t it? We’ve rented it out.”

  “So . . . who are they?” Alexis drops her voice to a whisper.

  “They’re a bit quirky,” says Roberta.

  “On account of them being writers, you know?”

  “They’re writers?”

  “All seven of them. They needed a space to meet and to work. It’s perfect.”

  “You have seven writers in your basement?”

  Donald nods, signing, “They like it here. There’s a poet, a couple of novelists, an opera librettist, an essay writer . . . . They don’t usually make much trouble.”

  She stands back and takes it all in—the nicely designed workspaces, the lighting, the sounds of Rush and Neil Young drifting from various speakers. The lumber used to construct the desks and bookcases looks vaguely familiar.

  “Is that? . . .” She turns to Mr. Kenji.

  He offers a solemn nod. “We used the lumber from the coffins. No need to let it go to waste.”

  “It’s brilliant,” she says quietly, then smiles at th
e writers. “I’m glad you’re here.”

  “Thanks,” says a guy hunched over a Mac. “Drop by anytime.”

  She heads back up the stairs with her friends. Her family. The writers in the basement have no idea what used to fill the space, and that’s probably a good thing. Now it’s filled with the ideas from their imagination, with laughter and conversation.

  Her mother would have liked that. Her words, spoken so long ago, drift back to Alexis’s mind: The Hotel Angeline is the place where your family lives. You have to take care of your family.

  She’d done her best. At fourteen, she’d given it everything she could, for as long as she could. And then she’d been given an opportunity to dive back into her childhood—a refuge, a welcome respite. The world had stopped, and Alexis had willingly stepped off.

  The time is right to return now. She checks her watch. It’s the same Xena Warrior Princess watch Linda had sent her that first Christmas in Sedona. Coming from Linda, it had been a peace offering. At least, Alexis chose to construe it that way.

  She feels a pinch of tension in her chest. “I’m going to head outside,” she tells the others.

  They don’t object; they know this meeting is going to be difficult.

  Sunlight slants across the front garden. Alexis sits on the stoop, watching families head home after the soccer match. She sees a young couple pushing a stroller, a small soccer player bouncing along beside them. There are a lot of ways a family can look, she reflects. As many ways as there are people.

  A wave of gratitude sweeps over her. She used to yearn for a different life, for comfort and ease and tradition, but finally she understands that the life she has is the one that’s meant to be. Rather than fighting to stuff herself into a role, she has discovered that letting go and letting things be as they are bring the richest rewards.

  Or so she hopes.

  The streets grow quiet; evening is coming on. It occurs to her that she doesn’t even know what kind of car Linda drives these days. Each passing VW Bug or Subaru or SUV makes her tense up.

  Finally a shiny pink Vespa whines to a stop in front of the Angeline. The matching pink helmet comes off, revealing a mane of hair dyed purple.

  Alexis stands up, studies the young woman she hasn’t seen in four years.

  “Hey,” she says.

  “Hey yourself.” Linda offers a flicker of a smile. “Long time no see.”

  Alexis hesitates. She studies the pretty face, the dark skin, the eyes that still sparkle with mischief. She doesn’t feel that revved-up youthful excitement that used to fill her when Linda was around.

  “You’ve changed,” Linda remarks.

  “Four years will do that to a kid.”

  “How are you doing?” Linda really seems to want to know.

  “Getting ready to start school at UW,” Alexis says. “I’m a little nervous, but excited.” She’s curious about her own emotions. When she looks at Linda now, she sees someone who once meant the world to her, like a child’s beloved toy that now sits on a shelf in a room she doesn’t visit anymore.

  “I’m sorry about that phone call,” she says.

  “It’s OK,” Linda assures her. “I understood then, and I still do.” She pauses. “You staying here tonight?”

  Alexis nods. “They’ve got my old room waiting for me. Just for one night.”

  “Got any other plans?”

  “Not really. You?”

  Linda twists around on the Vespa. “I’m going downtown to meet some friends. Want to come?”

  Alexis pauses. She looks at her friend, feels nothing but a warm sense of nostalgia. Then she turns back and looks at the Hotel Angeline. Its windows glow in the lowering twilight, and she thinks of the people inside—her family.

  “Maybe another time,” she tells Linda.

  “Sure, whenever.” Linda looks at her for an extra moment, then pushes off. The motor crescendos as she heads downtown, leaving a brief puff of exhaust in her wake.

  Alexis stands very still, listening to the murmur of conversation coming from somewhere inside. In the distance, she can see the lights on the water, glittering like diamonds along the shores of Puget Sound. The stars are coming out.

  It’s going to be a beautiful night.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  NEVER IN 36 MILLION YEARS could we have accomplished the writing of a thirty-six-author novel in six days without the participation, sponsorship, and fellowship of so many wonderful people and organizations from Seattle to New York to India and Australia.

  We thank everyone from the bottom of our hearts, including Sam Read and Hollis Palmer of ArtsCrush (www.artscrush.org), Jon Fine of Amazon.com (www.amazon.com), everyone at Richard Hugo House (www.hugohouse.org), and the good people at our fiscal arts management agency, Shunpike (www.shunpike.org).

  It takes a village to write a novel, and we’re grateful to our village of Seattle for incredible backup. Many fine dining establishments fed our authors; local businesses provided parking, raffle prizes, and equipment. They are listed on the acknowledgments page of our website (www.thenovellive.org/acknowledgements).

  In addition to our authors, who all gave up good honest writing time on their own projects to participate, we thank our generous volunteers and staff, also listed on our website (www.thenovellive.org/acknowledgements). And we thank Marilyn Dahl at Shelf Awareness (www.shelf-awareness.com) and so many other bloggers and supporters for bringing the live event to the public.

  Without a publisher, our thirty-six voices would have gone silent after the event, but thanks to the clear vision of the people at Open Road Integrated Media, Hotel Angeline can now light up the ereaders of our devoted fans and new readers. Many thanks to Brendan Cahill, Jane Friedman, Rachel Packman Chou, Luke Parker Bowles, Danny Monico, Andrea Colvin, Lauren Naefe, and our fine editor, Julie Doughty.

  And probably most especially, we thank the thousands who came and watched the process, whether in person or online from around the globe, urging our authors on, encouraging us when we grew weary during the six-day marathon, and always, always, eager to read the story as it unfolded and morphed and cohered. And now, we thank you, for joining their ranks.

  Long live Hotel Angeline!

  Jennie Shortridge and Garth Stein

  Co-founders

  Seattle7Writers

  Seattle7Writers (www.seattle7writers.org) is a nonprofit collective of Northwest authors whose mission is to create connections between readers, writers, booksellers, librarians, and all of those who believe in the power of the written word. All funds raised by Seattle7Writers, including from the sales of this book, are donated to literacy.

  Hotel Angeline: A Novel in 36 Voices is the result of The Novel: Live! project, which is one of a diverse range of not-for-profit programs that has received support from Amazon.com for its commitment to fostering the creation, discussion, and publication of new works and new authors. Other recipients include Lambda Literary Foundation, 826 Seattle, Poets & Writers, Ledig House, Macondo Foundation, Teachers & Writers Collaborative, Hedgebrook, The Moth, Seattle Arts & Lectures, Open Letter, Council of Literary Magazines and Presses, The Loft, Archipelago Books, Pen American Center, Copper Canyon Press, Milkweed Editions, Richard Hugo House, Words Without Borders, the Association of Writers & Writing Programs, Asian American Writers Workshop, New York Writers Coalition, and the Alliance for Young Artists & Writers.

  Contributors

  KATHLEEN ALCALÁ is the author of Spirits of the Ordinary and four other award-winning books. She teaches creative writing at the Northwest Institute of Literary Arts on Whidbey Island.

  MATTHEW AMSTER-BURTON is a personal finance columnist for Mint.com and co-host of the hit food-and-comedy podcast “Spilled Milk.” He is the author of Hungry Monkey: A Food-Loving Father’s Quest to Raise an Adventurous Eater, and has been repeatedly featured in the Best Food Writing anthology.

  KIT BAKKE spent the twentieth century as an anti-war street fighter, a pediatric nurse and a business consultant (thou
gh not at the same time). In the twenty-first, she turned to writing, which she also thinks is fun. Her books, so far, are Miss Alcott’s E-mail and Dot to Dot.

  ERICA BAUERMEISTER is the author of the bestselling novels The School of Essential Ingredients and Joy For Beginners. She is also the co-author of 500 Great Books by Women: A Reader’s Guide and Let’s Hear It For the Girls: 375 Great Books for Readers 2–14.

  SEAN BEAUDOIN is the author of the novels Going Nowhere Faster, Fade to Blue, and You Killed Wesley Payne. His stories and articles have appeared in numerous publications including Narrative, The Onion, the New Orleans Review, Glimmer Train, The Rumpus, the San Francisco Chronicle, and Spirit, the in-flight magazine of Southwest Airlines.

  DAVE BOLING is a Northwest journalist. His first novel, Guernica, won a Pacific Northwest Booksellers Association award for fiction in 2009, and was a Barnes & Noble “Discover Great New Writers” selection. Published in fifteen languages, it made several international bestseller lists.

  DEB CALETTI is an award-winning young adult author and National Book Award finalist. Her many books include The Nature of Jade, Stay, and Honey, Baby, Sweetheart, winner of the Washington State Book Award, the Pacific Northwest Booksellers Association Best Book Award, and a finalist for the PEN USA Award.

  CAROL CASSELLA is a practicing anesthesiologist, the mother of two sets of twins, and author of two nationally bestselling novels, Healer and Oxygen.

  WILLIAM DIETRICH is the author of ten novels, four non-fiction books, and was a longtime Northwest journalist who shared a Pulitzer at the Seattle Times. He has taught environmental journalism at Western Washington University, and his fiction has sold into thirty-one languages. His newest novel is Blood of the Reich.